


See What You See

by Shadowstar



Series: The Other Side of the Rainbow [2]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Magical Accidents, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mentioned Lydia Martin, Mentioned Scott McCall, One-Sided Attraction, POV Stiles, POV Zatanna, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8389381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: Clark goes to get a friend, Kara digs a hole with Stiles, and what is seen and known cannot be undone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, based on popular demand on AO3 (like, holy shit, popular demand, whut) I have decided to continue this. So now I’m alternating between one crossover ‘verse and the other, and I have to take a moment to remember which one I’m working on. Also, I have named this little series “The Other Side of the Rainbow” because, why not. Also, I’m going to be pulling a LOT from the DCU than what has been introduced on the CW series.
> 
> This alternates between Zatanna and Stiles's POVs; I think I like that format, and will probably alternate the next few parts like this, as well.
> 
>  **ALSO NOTE!** So, my use of the different forms of the word ‘magic’ are based on what I understand of it; “magic” is like a magic trick, an illusion, something that is not real in either the eye of the caster or the eye of the audience. “Magick”, meanwhile, holds the weight of intent and (at least in terms of religion) ritual behind it. In this case, it is used to denote the difference between what Zatanna does on stage, and what she does with her power.

She is 17 when she meets Clark Kent. It’s silly, and kind of stupid, and she _totally_ blames herself for getting caught. But she’d been bored, her father on stage and doing his tricks, and Clark had been there in the crowd, green and eager and looking to please—both his partner and his editor. It had seemed harmless, a prank, but apparently setting his pants leg on fire hadn’t been her smartest move.

Especially when Kryptonians are so very, very fragile when it comes to magick.

She’d very nearly, _literally_ , cried a river when she found out. Her mother had always said she was warm-hearted, gentle and far too close to _humans_. But what did the woman expect when she’d grown up with humans, she’d gone to school with humans, fallen _in love_ with humans? As if, because of her magick, she was somehow _less_ than human. As if her power didn’t put her on a map her mother couldn’t see, couldn’t pretend to deal with.

But Clark Kent. Clark, Clark, Clark. The man was a mystery, sweet-faced but so very, very sad. Even at 17 to his 24, she’d wanted to hug him tight, bake him cookies, and never let him go out into the world. To fight the things that only _he_ could fight in blue spandex-like material that she _totally_ gave him shit over any time he was in her neighborhood. He was the older brother she’d wished she’d always had, the sibling that wasn’t quite hers.

And then. And then there was Kara and he had _real_ family. But it was Clark—she never called him Superman; it was too pretentious, too muddied up in something that wasn’t quite _him_ —who assured her that it would be okay. That no matter what, they would remain together, like they were. Kara Zor-El became Kara Danvers and she never really met the girl, never interacted with her, save for passing mentions from Clark when her magic act passed through Metropolis.

And while she was preforming, she wasn’t in Metropolis; her travels had taken her to National City. It wasn’t her favorite, and she was so damn _wary,_ especially after that business with Myriad. But she trusted Clark, and Clark trusted Kara, and Kara was running around as Supergirl now. There was safety, _protection_ , here. She just had to trust that it would remain that way.

At least, until she returns to her dressing room after the curtain has closed on her last show for the night to find the man himself, dimpled chin and bright sun-filled eyes leaning against the door to the bathroom. She huffs at him, bright and eager to see him as always, eager to share the tales of the latest crowd to pass through the auditorium. But there is a weariness to his shoulders, something like sadness, and it has her pausing in even her usual greeting, studying him more closely.

“Lois is in good health, your last article was published this morning on schedule, and James is hearty and hale. So! What is it that has you so down, sunshine?” she asks, instead, tossing her hat, white gloves, and the prop cane she uses as a distraction—and magickal focus—onto the small vanity table. She doesn’t sit, turning and crossing her arms over her chest and leaning her hip against the same table she’d tossed bits of her costume on.

“I found a boy in an alleyway last night. He’s not from this Earth,” is what he tells her, sounding very much like the world is ending. At least, like _his_ world is ending.

“That’s… Okay,” she manages, straightening, on alert. Even if he’s taking this a bit harder than he _should_ , this was not exactly an incident that was cause for alarm.

She would _know_ if there was a cause for alarm. At the very least, Doctor Fate would have been making more noise than he had recently.

“How did he get here?” she asks when he doesn’t seem to want to continue, stuck on words. Too many words, she knows; he was a writer, a reporter, he was usually so _good_ and careful with his words. It was the job, it was the costume, and it makes her ache to think about how _stifling_ it must be for him.

“According to his story, he was running from someone, turned a corner and just… ended up here. He said he believed that he would escape, and apparently he _did_ ,” Clark tells her, moving away from the wall and sitting down heavily on the low, squishy couch. It is the one thing she always requests; a squishy, comfortable place to sit with those she invites into her dressing room, behind her protections and into her confidence.

Clark has always been someone in her confidence, and she has almost always been in his, too.

His words, though. They catch on her, sizzle over her skin like nails, a feeling that is at once frightening and arousing. Electric, with just a hint of danger.

“A _spark_ ,” she breathes, moved and eager and so _very_ scared. “ _Clark_. Clark, where is he?” And she doesn’t mean to ask, doesn’t want to scare him.

But already, already her mind is playing over this brief conversation. Of the possibilities; that someone could be trying to escape from something, _someone_ , and believe hard enough, to have _enough power_ to break through that tenuous barrier that separates the infinite Earths…

“He’s at the DEO headquarters in downtown,” he tells her, reluctantly, pulling a face.

And, boy, wasn’t _that_ a whole different can of worms. She fights the way her lips twitch, the way she wants to snicker at his expression. Really, if he would just… _talk_ to J’Onn, it would not be so very awkward, but she knows there’s Lois, so it isn’t _easy_. And the man—superman though he may be—had been raised in _Kansas_ , so.

Right.

“And I’m guessing he’s already been checked out?” How she manages to keep her voice steady is a wonder, but she does. She manages it easy enough, even as she turns the chair at the vanity table to perch on, running her fingers through her long, inky hair.

“As much as we could before he was conscious, yeah,” Clark agrees, relaxing a little when she doesn’t press upon the rather large green elephant-esque shape in the room. Seems almost grateful when she concentrates on just this, on the task at hand, and it has her biting back yet another grin.

The urge fades when the relaxation in his posture does, something dark and worried passing over his face.

“He was _injured_ , when I found him. And the scars he has… He doesn’t come from anyplace good,” he tells her, voice soft and dark, something like velvet and lightning. Almost harsh to her ears, and it has her stomach sinking in sympathy.

“I’m sure he still wants to go back, though; wants to go _home_.” And, okay, it’s totally a low blow. But she can see the wheels turning in that sun-filled head, knows what he wants to mention, to suggest. But she can’t let him, she _can’t_. It would hurt him too much when he wouldn’t be able to convince this mystery guest to stay, to be protected.

“Yeah. Yeah, maybe,” he sighs, defeated and sad, and she feels distinctly like she’s kicked a puppy, here, with her reminder. Again, she knows it was a low blow, but she had to make him see it was for the best.

“Do you know anything else about him?” she prompts into the silence that follows, reigning in her guilt and pressing forward. She wasn’t that teenager anymore, and he wasn’t just a green reporter anymore.

“Only that his name is Stiles. And that, apparently, we’re all comic books where he’s from.” The last is said almost curiously, and this time she doesn’t suppress her grin. It spreads wide and shares her laugh to the room, brief and sharp as it is.

“Oh, this should be _fun_ , then,” she grins, dark almond-shaped eyes shooting him a look; knows that he’s likely already given the newcomer some kind of warning about _sharing_.

“Don’t,” he tells her, and it’s almost a whine. Pleading with her not to do anything.

…Alright, so maybe she _was_ still that teenager at heart. This time, though, she wasn’t planning on causing third degree burns.

“We’ll see.” She makes no promises, and thus can safely say later that she will tell no lies. The line she walks in that regard is thin, blurry, and she can topple one way or the other at any time. Still, the look on Clark’s face is _worth_ it.

“Do you think you could help him, though?” He asks an impossible to answer question; she doesn’t know the circumstances, hasn’t yet talked to the magick user. And she tells him as such.

“I won’t know until I talk with him, get a feel for what’s going on,” she reminds him, hopping to her feet. “Let me change into something less showy and you can take me to see him.”

His grin of relief is bright, blinding like the noonday sun in the desert. A flash of heat, a shock to her system, and definitely making her grateful to be properly hydrated. It makes her own lips, currently painted red after her show, quirk in return.

“Thanks, Zatanna.” And he is, he is _so_ very grateful, it makes her ache for him, for that trust that she protects like her own magick secret.

“Any time, Clark.”

*=*-*=*

He was in the DEO. Actually in the Department of Extranormal Operations. The DEO that is run by the goddamn Martian Manhunter, an actual refugee from _Mars_. _How,_ how was this his life?

Oh, right. He was chased by a criminal who wanted to kill him to get to his dad, who had gotten some kind of bizarre _upgrade_ if the wound on his shoulder was anything to go by. Chased down a hall through his high school, around a corner with the intention of going to the library to hide but had apparently whisked himself away from the danger. And it’s not like he’d just managed to somehow get himself home; oh no, that would have been too _easy_.

On top of that, he doesn’t understand the how of it all. He doesn’t understand how it’s happened now, this time, when he’s wished so hard in the past to not be cornered and alone and scared. Wished that he wasn’t the helpless, weak little human who has a tendency to drag everyone else down. To put everyone he loves, that he cares for in one fashion or another, in the line of fire.

A voice that sounds like Scott’s, firm and gentle and like it had been before his best friend had become a werewolf, in the back of his head tells him to shut up, that he clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and he manages to shake off the self-deprecating thoughts that plague him for the moment being. Instead, he concentrates on the space around him, all cold lines and industrial cleaner, metal and glass and everything so very sterile it almost sets his teeth on edge. He’s still in the room he’d been in before, some medical wing or something, so his initial thought of being in a hospital isn’t _too_ far off.

The biggest difference is that he’d changed out of the scrubs he’d apparently been stuffed into when he was unconscious, changed into some borrowed sweats that are too big and smell like plastic. He misses his jeans and t-shirt, his tennishoes, his own damn _bed._ He wants to be home, wants to not be stuck in this mental loop that he’s finding himself in, reminding him of the terror and the pain and the dark, pressing coolness of the high school hallway.

“Hey,” comes the voice of the pretty blonde in the unbelievable blue getup that has hardly left his side—and the side of the man unconscious a few beds away—since he’d woken up and the big man in blue had left. Her hand is small and so, so warm against his skin at the edge of his borrowed black shirt.

“Hey,” he sighs in return, mustering up a smile to send in her direction. It’s lame, and definitely not anywhere close to what it was once-upon-a-time, but he’s just…

He’s tired. He’s tired, and—

“So. I have to ask,” she tells him but lets the question hang, red-painted lips pulling upwards, her unearthly eyes bright and _sparkling_ at him, Christ, that was actually a _thing_ that _really happened_. When she continues to let the question not actually be asked, his eyebrows slowly arch at her.

“Ask… what, exactly?” Because there’s only so much he can do with no point of reference. There is nothing in their interactions to even indicate anything she would be curious about.

“My cousin said that when he found you, you called him by a name,” she tells him, slow and careful, as though testing the waters to make sure it was okay to swim.

And it most definitely was _not_.

“Uh, yeah, and _no_. I’m not—just… no.” It seems like the easiest way to get out of the line of questioning: to shut it down with an answer and a _non_ -answer in the process.

The innocent look that she gives him is complete and total _shit_ ; her lips are pressed too tightly together, trying to keep the smile off her face, and her bright eyes are still sparkling. Inviting him, prodding at him, in that way the eyes of that color seem to.

The way that Derek’s used to.

The thought of him, the distance made so much greater than a few state lines, is like a punch to the chest that he folds around, all the teasing and humor bleeding out of him with his breath. Her hands are on both of his arms, now, and she’s sitting on the bed in front of him, her leg hitched onto it to keep her boot sole off and lets him lean into him.

“I know that look. I _know_ it. I’ve seen it before. You… Whoever you thought that Superman was, you love him.” And she says it so easily, so sadly, that he can’t help but huff out softly at her. At the incredulity of such a thing.

Not that she’s actually _wrong_ , just that, well. It’s useless, pointless, never going to amount to anything _ever_. Even if Derek hadn’t left.

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells her with a shrug, as though that’s everything, and to him, _for_ him it is. There isn’t anything else, no other extension of this conversation that he could have, that he would let himself have, that would actually be good for either his health or his heart.

Besides, there was Malia to think about, too. And he does care about her, has feelings for her. It’s just not the same. Some part of him feels guilty, for letting this get so deep, so far, without telling her the truth. He just isn’t sure if he _can_.

“Of _course_ it matters!” she bursts out, squeezing his arms with something close to bruising force, but just on the edge of it. “Love _always_ matters!”

And all at once, he’s angry with her. With this iconic superhero who shouldn’t exist, this _girl_ who has grown up on stories of her cousin and good will, he is absolutely _furious_. Because she has no right to tell him how much it matters. Doesn’t get to tell him that love is some mystical force that conquers all, that leads to the good guys winning all the time.

The way they’ve won? They’ve won through sheer fucking _luck_ at least half the time, and with the knowledge that if they didn’t the world was fucked anyway.

He jerks out of her grip, flailing his hands to knock her hands away, jaw firming. His chest feels tight, his eyes sting, and he just wants to _scream_ at her. This woman, wearing a cape and boots who can _fly_. Who has the luxury of defending her friends, her city, without worrying about whether or not she was going to end up with permanent holes in her body.

His shoulder aches, throbs, with the movement and he can’t seem to care.

“It _doesn’t_! He left, I’m here, and I have friends and family _I_ have to protect! It doesn’t matter that I’ve been in love with him for two years, it doesn’t _matter_ that I still have dreams of him; he isn’t here, he isn’t even _there_ , and _love_? Is not going to fucking _change_ that!” He’s yelling by the end of it, his movements sharp and contained as he curls his hands into fists, punctuating each word with a finger pointed at the ground. As though grounding the words will hurt less, will make the admission of it any more false.

His anger is met by her softening gaze, her eyes going sad and watery, her mouth being pulled down. She’s unhappy, and he doesn’t care, even though he does because the expression reminds him of Lydia and her disappointment and he _hates_ disappointing Lydia.

The anger is gone, and all that’s left is a gaping ache, one that’s been there for six months. A loss, deep and aching. They had only _just_ seemed to have pulled themselves out of the black hole that had been the Nogitsune when Derek left. Not just for a few weeks, not for a sabbatical; no, according to Braedon—because Derek couldn’t even _bother_ to let _anyone else_ know—it was _permanent_. And he understands, he does; he knows the death and destruction of Beacon Hills, has felt it down to the very center of his own being again and again. Knows better than anyone else in the pack what Derek has been through, what the man had _lost_ to that damn place.

But to just… leave? To not say a _damn_ word that he was going? And, even more, to not even admit that he wasn’t coming back?

“Stiles…” Her voice drops his chin towards his chest, trying to hide. Trying not to let her see what his own words have done to himself. He’d told himself, over and _over_ that he would just talk to Derek. That it would just be a conversation about that _one time_ , and. And _now_.

She smells of sunshine; like brightness, fresh air, _good_ things. Her hair has the faint smell of exhaust, of something fruity, but mostly she smells of sunshine when she wraps him up in her arms and holds onto him tight, tucking him against her as though she could protect him from his own heartache.

“We’ll get you home, and we’ll fix this.” She sounds so sure, like all it will take is her word that it really will all be okay. That she will _make_ it okay.

For the first time in weeks, since the beginning of the school year, he wants to trust her. Wants to believe her. Wants to sink into her, let her take over, let this silly, iconic superhero make it all better.

But he can’t answer her, doesn’t have the strength to. Doesn’t have the will to tell her that he believes her, because so much of him believes that it’s all a _lie_.

She draws away from him slowly, carefully, as though not sure whether or not he would collapse in on himself without the fortification, and he appreciates the thought. Appreciates that there is _someone_ who would do this for him. It’s not a fair thought to his pack, but it still makes him _ache_ for when things were simpler.

The dark haired woman who hadn’t spoken to him earlier steps into the room, then, breaking the silence that is heavy and thick with sadness and things better left unsaid with the sound of the door. She clears her throat gently, her brown eyes warm on her sister and the way that the woman still remains at his side.

“Superman and his guest are waiting,” she tells them, her voice oddly gentle, motioning with her head back the way she came.

“C’mon. Let’s see if we can’t get you home,” Supergirl tells her, giving his arm a warm squeeze and leading him out of the room behind the older woman.

*=*-*=*

She doesn’t know what she’s expecting when she steps out of Clark’s hold, down the stairs, and into what seems to be the hub of activity for the DEO. She doesn’t know how to put into words seeing J’Onn again, even though she knows, _knows_ that it was going to happen. Knows just from the look on the shifted man’s face when he looks at them that there is still that undercurrent, the electricity that she would very much like to encourage but definitely _won’t_ because she knows better.

She’d gotten yelled at, seven ways to Sunday, the last time she’d tried to encourage dating; Bruce _still_ hasn’t forgiven her.

What she isn’t expecting is the interesting young man who steps up with the girl—no, the _woman_ who must be Clark’s baby cousin. Who wasn’t ever a baby, and who had _started out_ as being the older of the two of them. No, but the young man—teenager; he looks like he shouldn’t even be allowed to _vote_ , yet—is dark around the edges in a way she’s seen on soldiers; tired, drawn, _worn down_ and looking like he needs a good century’s worth of sleep. He’s seen a lot of _Really Bad Things_ , and she wonders if perhaps his subconscious hadn’t brought him here because he needed an escape of an entirely different type. He isn’t unattractive, though not quite attractive in a conventional sense; she hasn’t ever really been one who is drawn to freckles of any kind, but the line of them just above his jaw is rather… intriguing.

Almost as intriguing as the way he’s looking at her, as though he’s seen a ghost, like he _knows_ her, or someone who looks a lot like her. Considering his place of origin, it isn’t all that surprising.

“Judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing you know my counterpart,” she muses in lieu of an introduction, unable to keep the grin from her face.

He pauses, eyes her, then eyes Clark, before huffing and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yep, nope. I have no words right now. Well, other than these, I guess. Based on the fact that the consensus is that magic brought me here, you…” He pauses, brow furrowing a little as he looks her over. “Yep. Okay. Nope, got nothing.”

She laughs, delighted; interacting with other dimensions isn’t something she fancies doing on a regular basis—tends to be confusing, and more than a little messy in the grand scheme of things—but the few that she has have been where she and everyone she knows are fiction. It’s fascinating and amusing, and, well.

“Zatanna Zatara,” she introduces, offering her hand to him, and his eyebrows shoot up. Not surprised, not exactly, but there’s something curious in his whiskey-colored eyes.

“Okay, alright,” he says slowly, shaking her hand slowly. “You look like my friend Kira.” The last is said almost as an afterthought, as though he has to get the words out there. Like he has to say it aloud to have it make any sort of sense.

She doesn’t blame him.

“I figured I looked like someone you know based on the staring,” she tells him with a shrug before shoving her hands in her pockets. His cheeks warm with color, a splash of pink against pale skin, and she bites back an inappropriate comment.

“Sorry, just… not used to it. I’m Stiles, by the way,” he tells her, almost sheepish, giving her his name—or at least a nickname; who the hell names their kid _Stiles_? But, okay, what is _she_ complaining about?—in the process of crossing his arms over his chest. A protective gesture, trying to make himself as small a target as possible, protecting his vital organs.

“Superman thought you would be able to figure out how to get him home?” the brunette standing to the left of Stiles prompts, frowning. There is something distrustful about her, in the protective way she stands a little closer to the young man and to the woman in blue. Older sibling syndrome, as she calls it, because it seems to be something she sees in all of the sibling dynamics she deals with.

“That’s what I’m here to see about, yeah,” she agrees, grinning winningly at the young man, who looks even more weirded out than before.

“So, just like that? You’re going to… what, say a spell, open a portal, and send me home?” His tone is skeptical, as though he doesn’t believe it would be quite that easy. Which, well. He’s right without actually _saying_ it.

“Nope,” she tells him, popping the word as she steps forward, across the little circle the six of them have made in the room. But she is stopped from moving further by J’Onn, his hand on her shoulder.

“If you’re going to do what I think you are, we should move this to somewhere a little more comfortable,” he tells her, nodding to the brunette. His second in command, then; his right hand. Which is probably a good thing, considering her protective nature.

The brunette gives a nod in return, before gently pressing her hand to the taller young man’s arm, guiding him away from the hub, leading all of them to a small meeting room that, once the door is closed to the hub, is quiet and almost peaceful. It’s all very modern, clean metallic lines and glass, but it’s warm and quiet and away from the foot traffic.

“Okay, Stiles, you should probably sit down,” she tells him, motioning towards the long table in the middle of the room, around which is an array of ergonomic office chairs.

He shoots her a suspicious glance, thin mouth pulling down slightly in a frown, but he does as he’s told and flops in a controlled flail of limbs into the chair that Clark pulls out for him. He is studiously not looking at the man in blue, and she catches Clark’s cousin with a sad frown on her face.

She has so many questions, but none of them are going to be answered, so she doesn’t even bother with asking them in the first place.

“Alright,” she breathes as she rubs her hands together, going to kneel in front of him. “This is probably going to be uncomfortable for you. But I need to figure out how you got here to help teach you how to get home.”

The look in his eyes is a mix of that same world-weary look that appears to be his default, and a mistrust that gives her an uncomfortable feeling in her gut. Like she’s letting him down, letting him look at her like that. When she doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything further, he seems to understand that she’s asking for permission. He hesitates, finally looking at Clark and there is a mix of things on his face, all things that once again have her chest clenching.

If she’d thought the situation with J’Onn and Clark was bad, she clearly had no idea what the other end of the scale looked like. At least, until now.

“It’s okay,” Clark encourages, pressing his hand to Stiles’s and it looks like the kid can’t seem to decide whether to jerk away or press into it.

Chewing on his lip, Stiles gives a jerky nod, both at her and at Clark. Smartly, Clark moves away as she moves closer, splaying her fingertips in the lightest of touches along his forehead. She breathes steadily, softly, letting her magick flow over her as she concentrates on her intent, forming the core of what she needs in her mind before speaking the words.

“Wosh em tahw uoy evah nees.” The words roll off her tongue, the familiarity of the logomancy somehow soothing as she breathes life to the spell. It doesn’t seem to work for a moment which— _strange_. But then, all at once, with a flash of familiar light and a familiar surge of power, she _sees_ , and _holy fuck._

Holy fuck.

The strength of the vision had been enough to knock her back, flat on the ground a few feet from where she’d been kneeling. Luckily, the two Kryptonians were well enough away not to be caught in the little current of electric power leftover afterwards. J’Onn carefully kneels beside her when her eyes clear from the horror, blood, and fear that she’d been inundated with; her spell had worked more than a _lot_ too well. She’s shaking as she lets the Martian help her sit up, blinking wide eyes at the boy slumped in the chair.

Boy. Ha. As if he’d been a boy since he was 15, and chasing down a serial killer.

But he’s unconscious, a slow trickle of blood staining his top lip. The bruises under his eyes—the evidence of his sleepless nights is so dark, they can’t be called anything else—even more pronounced than they had been before. He looks so small, hunched in that chair, and she almost desperately wants to tell Clark to take her back, to get her away. That she _refuses_ to let this young man go _back_ to the horror that was his life.

But she’d Seen Scott. She’d Seen Malia. She’d Seen them _all_ : his father, Lydia, Parrish, Liam, Mason—the list just went _on_. She’d seen the deaths—Alison, Erica, Boyd—and the fight for survival. The integral piece of the puzzle that he was in the workings of the place called Beacon Hills.

“I—“ her voice is hoarse, like she’d been screaming, and her face is wet; her cheeks are tight with drying tears, and her top lip tingles in the familiar way of a nosebleed to match Stiles’s. All at once she just wants to _run_. But her legs are jelly, limbs folded in and clinging to herself.

“Are you okay?” Supergirl asks her, voice soft and worried with an expression to match. An expression that is reflected on the other three faces in the room facing her, still conscious and looking mildly freaked out.

“I need some air,” she manages to get out, letting J’Onn tug her to her feet. She stumbles into him, limbs still like wet noodles and refusing to hold her weight in a steady fashion. “I. I need.” She can’t seem to find the words to describe it, to put her need, her _want_ into something that her tongue can wrap around and express.

No one says a word as J’Onn leads her from the room, his dark face lined with worry and something darker. Once she is certain they will not be heard by human ears, she lets her fingers cut through the air with a muttered, “Ecnelis.” Still, even after the air around them rings for long moments, neither of them speak.

“You saw it,” she finally manages, forming the words that she sees in his eyes, wiping away the bitter blood with the tissue he hands her from a pack he finds on the shelf of the supply room they’ve escaped to. “You got caught in the spell, and you _saw_.”

“I did. I… when he first woke up, I saw some, then, too.” He sounds so tired, so very _sad_ , and this is just.

It’s nothing like what she wants, what she thought it would be, at all. Not even close to it.

“I don’t want to send him back,” she admits, confessing it like some great secret. And maybe it is. Maybe it is something she needs to say, to admit to, if only just this once.

“I know. But it’s not your choice,” he tells her gently, like a parent to a child. Advice, like something out of a teen romance.

But the teen in question has been fighting horror stories and saving the world and _dying_. And that was all _before_ the Nogitsune.

 _Fuck_.

“I know,” she whispers, voice wavering. Tight and wet, like her cheeks, more tears that she doesn’t want to shed but is on the verge of anyway. “I know, but I still don’t want to.”

He hugs her, then; it’s not as good as if Clark would have. But she doesn’t want to put this on Clark, doesn’t want to dampen that warm sunshine, doesn’t want to share in the horror of Stiles’s life with him even if he would take the burden gladly. He has so much weight on his shoulders, nearly the weight of the entire _world_ , and she doesn’t think it’s fair at least half the time. But as with Stiles wanting to go back, it is Clark’s choice and she has no say. Can only advise and be there to help pick up the broken, jagged pieces at the end of it all.

She isn’t sure how long they hide in that little closet, but she is grateful for the silence and the warm solid presence of J’Onn against her. Finally, though, she comes to terms with the fact that they do need to move on. That she has held onto her grief for the young man long enough; it’s time to get to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations of Zatanna's spells:
> 
> Wosh em tahw uoy evah nees = Show me what you have seen  
> Ecnelis = Silence
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://pinkybitesu.tumblr.com).


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